Vendetted
by Miromi
Summary: Ozpin goes through the applicants for Beacon again before the day of their induction and he spots something that he recognises in one student's transcripts.


He sat on cold steel, a small foldable chair supporting his weight, an equally cold desk worked to support his crossed arms. Carted off in the middle of the night from his comfortable bed in his comfortable house, forced to sit in a cold little room with a cold little personality; dull grey with the single unshaded light bulb serving as both lighting and time keep as it swung from a dubiously secured cord. Five minutes had passed if the bulb was to be believed—or his watch—his captors hadn't spare much thought to the meeting they'd arranged, no notice card and they were terribly tardy.

Five more minutes passed before the monotony was broken by the arrival of a blot of green, colour that would have someone noticed anywhere remotely civilised—even the boy had felt grey in comparison. Perched atop the green sat the head of an aged young man—clearly parting with middle age despite retaining the features of a man 10 years his junior. His cane rapping upon the floor, supporting his weight despite no limp furthered the strange image; as if the man had been unable to decide between youth or age and opted for a strange mesh of both.

He stopped before the seat opposite the boy, a show of power; of a higher position. The man made a purposeful show of stooping into the seat, an equal approach. The cane came to a rest on his lap, his hands taut on the smooth metal of its handle. He longed to slow down, stop, take a deep breath before continuing or even leaving the room for a moment; he couldn't, instead he met the gaze of the boy—criminal.

"Do you know who I am Mr. Arc?" The boy shook his head in response, mouth tied tightly in a firm line.

"I am Ozpin, headmaster of Beacon academy; perhaps you now have some idea of why you're here." And he did, Beacon had been all that was on his mind ever since he'd taken the desperate measures that had no doubt landed him here. His body loosed, sagging into his chair; his dreams had died on this day.

"Good, I see you understand the situation. Know then, that remaining silent will do you no favours." The boy may have been a tool against him but a tool could be used by any man; with sufficient training.

"No; don't care to talk much do you? It doesn't matter—what does matter: Where is Roman Torchwick?" A deer caught in headlights might have been a better reaction, the shock that he'd been caught red handed and even his employer was a known quantity. Instead, all Ozpin received was the blank glazed over look of the truly ignorant.

"You don't even know who he is. You attempted to enter my academy with his forgeries without even knowing." Their history wasn't precisely common knowledge—that had been a great cost to him at the time—but the boy had unwittingly stumbled upon the largest landmine that he'd ever had the displeasure of stepping on himself; Torchwick.

"Fine, tell me how you found the man that made your forged transcripts, perhaps I'll even let you into Beacon if the information is good." He could dangle that bait easily, being headmaster often had perks, though the boy appeared to be largely untrained. His options were limited, the boy knew of his vendetta now; he couldn't roam free.

So the boy told Ozpin everything he knew about the forged transcripts, the man he now knew as Roman Torchwick and their meeting. A short time later and halfway through his story detailing how he wrestled a knife from an armed thug, which may have been partially—largely—fabricated Ozpin stood. The scrapping of steel chair legs on marble floor silencing him, even as Ozpin turned and began to walk towards the only door.

His dream had been revived for a short moment before lapsing into final death. His world shook, he felt nauseous, spinning to and fro. The jeers of boys filled his mind; carved into his soul over the years—he knew the sound well. His father's disappointment and his mother's weeping gave subtle undertones to the concert within his head. The marching of prison guards, of soldiers; even the rattling of cans on bars all played part in his catastrophic symphony. The great and powerful Ozpin's words were all that saved him from the encroaching madness.

"Remember, induction is tomorrow. Don't be late."

The click of the door behind him allowed him the breather he had needed far earlier. He hated doing this, hated sending this boy to what would be his death—but, he hated Torchwick far more and by now Jaune Arc was simply another pebble on his path to hell.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: My 500 words for today, habit building is go. That said I'm going to annoy the shit out of someone with all the crap I post, sorry if that's you. It's just far easier to write a quick first draft of a short like this and just put it out there, that said I'll probably have to start editing everything if I really write 500 words a day. It's odd how much editing helps, how bad our first drafts are but I can tell you the themes I started with in my head for this one are pretty much no where to be found within it; I'll start editing I guess.<strong>


End file.
